When a tear slips over her lashes and down her cheek, I use the sleeve of my shirt to wipe it away. Then I gather her against my chest and hold her to ease her mind.
“I don’t believe you, Declan,” she softly whispers. “But I do trust you.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
After a moment, she wipes her eyes and pulls away. With a deep breath, she paints a smile on her face and claps her hands together excitedly.
“Okay, now introduce me to that hunky American.”
Chapter Eight
Declan
I find peace in my studio, even this late at night and even after the day from hell I’ve had. The naked woman on the grass stares back at me as if she’s waiting for me to find the inspiration, but there is none.
The allure in her eyes is gone.
All I see now is the look on Colin’s face as he smiled at his new man.
I don’t understand why I feel so crummy about this. I should be happy for my friend. Maybe part of me feels like shite because I’ve missed out on so much. He fell in love with someone, and I wasn’t there to hear about it. He got engaged, and I had no idea.
I don’t matter to him anymore.
God, I’m pathetic. I’ve been hanging on to this friendship when he clearly hasn’t. He wasn’t even going to invite me to his wedding.
There’s a creak of a floorboard on the stairs followed by the quiet padding of feet as someone tiptoes down the hall toward my studio. Frozen on my stool, staring at the painting, I don’t bother turning around because I know who it is.
“I don’t like it,” he mutters from the doorway.
I let out a huff of a laugh. Not because he hurt my feelings;because with four words—an inside joke plucked from an old memory—he made it feel like us again. And I nearly forgot what that feels like.
“I don’t like it either, Shakespeare,” I say, staring at the painting.
“I told you not to call me that,” he replies, walking into the room.
“Since when do I listen to you?”
As he comes to stand in front of the painting, his head tilts to the side like it always used to, and his eyes scrutinize every brushstroke. In my periphery, I take in the surreal sight of him standing in my studio.
“It’s terrible,” he whispers.
“You’re just saying that,” I say with a shake of my head.
“No, I’m serious,” he replies, glancing toward me. “It’s truly awful.”
The corner of his mouth tugs with a smile, and warmth blossoms in the center of my chest.
“Thanks,” I reply, knowing full well what he really means when he says how bad it is. It’s an old game we used to play. Shelby knows how much I hate taking compliments, so he offers criticism instead. Like he could ever criticize me and mean it.
When he says he hates it, I know it means he loves it.
When he says it’s awful, I know he means it’s exquisite.
It’s quiet again, and my traitor of a mind immediately goes to the last time Colin and I were alone in this room. Seven years ago, a night I will likely never forget.
Just before it all came to an end.
“So…” he says, turning toward me. “You’re not really going through with this, are you?”
